


Doomed, Yet Defiant

by BalerionTheDrake



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amrod Lives, Beleriand, Darkening of Valinor, F/M, First Age of Arda, I Don't Even Know, I attempt to do a self insert in the most unlikely of stories, May end in disaster, OC SI, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, The Grey-Elves of Mithrim, The SI's knowledge is based on the published Silmarillion only(The Author's is not), Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 04:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalerionTheDrake/pseuds/BalerionTheDrake
Summary: wan·der·lust/ˈwändərˌləst/NounA strong desire to travel."A man consumed by wanderlust"As seems usual in this world, what my mother named me seems to be distressingly accurate. Of course by now I definitely should have known what Fate would be spelled out for me when the Trees went out for the last time.





	Doomed, Yet Defiant

**Prologue**   


 

29th Year Upon the Helcaraxë

The Host of Ñolofinwë and the Children of Arafinwë

///////////////////////////////////

_ CRAAACK!!  _ The harsh, grating sound reverberates through the air. A gaping maw opens beneath the ground. A once gargantuan single piece of several kilometers thick has seemingly decided that now is the time to shatter.

 

It makes the twisting snake of elves that walk along this ice blasted hellscape freeze in their path. Everyone knows what that noise means, although they had hoped that such instances had been left behind once the host had moved away from the weaker portions of the Grinding Ice that were just off the Araman shore. Already they could hear the dull thrumming sounds that meant the ice would soon become many. They had to move now.

 

Now is the time for the leaders to drive their people onward, out of danger as they had done for night three decades. Weathering the loss that the crossing was putting upon their people. There goes Ñolofinwë, leaping onto a small ice hill to look for the safest(relatively) way forward. Findekáno, his eldest, right behind him and issuing a flurry of commands to those around the pair. 

 

Now Turukáno gathers the youngest about himself, as always sheltering his daughter from the worst. I’ve heard many among the host speaking well of the middle prince, mainly of his dedication to protecting his daughter and his perseverance despite the loss of his wife. Admittedly the people are seeing a side of the stoic prince they hadn’t seen during our life in Tirion as there he had been a typical loner, not really interacting with the other noble youth of the Noldor or even his various cousins. Outside of one or two Elda that is.

 

Off to the far left of the Host I can see the glowing golden hair of the Sons of Arafinwë, who are rallying their people together. The greatest extent of shattered ice is right among their numbers and it looks like the cracks are racing to the far side of the Host, where we are. To make the situation even worse, an absolutely biting wind starts howling down from the north.

 

The Princess Írissë is with Turukáno now. While he gathers the most vulnerable to himself, she begins the process of getting the center of the Host to move. The strong spirit of the youngest of Ñolofinwë shining through to those around her, allowing them to draw some of her inner strength into themselves. Enough to ready themselves for the next push onwards. That is how the Host, us, had functioned the past decades on the Grinding Ice: always keep moving if you’re not sleeping. Eat on the move, repair clothes and weapons on the move, talk on the move. A marked changed from Tirion. But for all the changes the Ice has wrought on our behaviors, the majority just aren’t fast enough. 

 

At the greatest margins of my enhanced hearing, I hear a terrible cry go out and then be snuff out into a gargle.

_ A small group, _ the detached part of me says,  _ no more than three. Acceptable losses. _

 

Damn the Ice for making this part of me.

 

Everyone around hears the cut off scream and our leaders start yelling, shoving, and pushing Eldas forward. Speaking of which, time to do my part.

 

“Alright meldors, it's time to go!” I spin about to face my people, still a strange notion after all the time, my patchwork fur cloak whipping about my thin frame. The six hundred and fifty-two Noldor that made up the huddle-blob that most subgroups of the Host moved in nowadays had managed to preempt my orders and had started to trundle forward, hauling the myriad collection of crude sleighs with them.

 

The wind was making the effects of the ever present cold worse for the Host. My group had the advantage of patches of fur having been added to their clothing over the long years, but it only added the barest amount of comfort.

 

Luckily, we are Eldar and only the harshest of cold will bring about hypothermia. Well...that and falling into the murky sea that lurked beneath the Ice. But there was no returning from a fall into the waves as we had all learned.

 

I moved up to a raised portion of ice, not a true hill, but more than enough to allow me a higher view point to direct my people away from the most dangerous sections of crumbling ice. I could see several other figures who had the same idea as me.

 

“Nortaro!” A voice called out to me. A tall figure approached from the outskirts of the Host, a hand in the air to bring my attention to him as he weaved in and out of the crowd of Eldar. It was Arakáno, a Prince of the Noldor and the only child of the Princess Lalwendë. Although I was never all that certain is the title of prince extended to the grandchildren of High King Finwë, but I wasn’t going to be the poor sod who managed to get exiled from the social life of Tirion for not affording all possible respect to those with royal blood coursing through their veins. Besides the prince was always in the company of the children of Ñolofinwë, and they seemed to have a good relation with each other. So the impromptu title most likely holds water.

 

The prince bounded up to my position, and I was starkly reminded of the just how tall the descendants of High King Finwë could end up being. I was considered to be on the taller side of the Eldar spectrum and only came up to Arakáno’s shoulders.

 

“What is our status?”, The prince inquired.

 

“The ice is holding for us at the moment my lord.”, I answered respectfully, bringing myself to attention. Despite Arakáno’s quite noticeable lack of propriety between the two of us - his insistence on my using his father name among them - the elda was my direct prince(   
Again, validity of that title is probably debatable) and my father had spent far too much time hammering in  _ all _ the social requirements a commoner was supposed to go through when addressing a member of the royal family for me to not follow the barest of protocol. 

 

“Good, good.”, Arakáno said, “This break looks to be the worst one since the start of the crossing. Father says he wants everyone moving away from this as quickly as possible.”

 

How did he...oh the famed mental communications of the House of Finwë. Something I had never really had a talent for.

“It will be done my lord.”, I replied. “What is the state of the rest of our host?”

 

“They are fine, I was just among them. The worst they suffer is a little shock and some startled children.” Arakáno said brusquely. Now that might have sounded a bit cruel if it had come from some other person, but Arakáno genuinely cared about each elf under his care. But if no one was hurt then there was no time to tarry.

 

For brief moment, the two of us looked at the great host of the Noldor upon the Grinding Ice, the eternal darkness that being in the Helcarxë imposed upon us making our presence here stand out all the more; with a glittering line of scattered flame stretching to the almost to the horizon. At a different time the sight would have inspired the artists and poets of our people, probably resulting in something about the strength of the Noldor spirit. Now it was just a symbol to the horrible trial we had unwittingly invited on ourselves.

 

Then looking out, I saw something that made my stomach  _ drop _ . From the North, like the biting wind that was now among us, a towering cloud of white rushed towards us. A snowstorm.

 

Not just any snow storm but an unnatural one. Even from this great distance, I could see ice spikes forming  _ ahead of the storm front _ .

 

I turned to look at Arakáno, who face had gone ghastly, ghoulish white, and saw the same horror reflected in his tree-light eyes that I knew shone in mine.

 

My mouth dried up and I found myself unable to ask for orders from Arakáno.

 

Luckily, the prince lived up to his father-name and lept into action. He belted out orders to those behind him. “Form huddles!” He cried out. “Use the sleds as shelter and stay low!”

 

He placed his right hand on my shoulder. “Nortaro take the forward groups. I’ll take the ones behind us. Go!” With that parting statement Arakáno gave me a shove, more of nudge really, before leaping off our raised platform, back in the direction he had originally come from. He started shouting to the leaders of the groups there. I was able to pick out the names of Silatar, Larcatal, and Ehtyarion in the winds as they where fellow leaders of groups sworn to the Prince.

 

I shook my head to focus myself. There was a job to do.

 

I jumped off the ice and fell into what I could only describe as chaos, organized chaos at the moment but I could physically feel that organization slipping away the closer the wall of white got to the Host.

 

I moved into the ranks of my people first, straining my vocal chords to the breaking point in order that my voice could reach my seconds.

 

“ENWINO! MOVE THE SLEDS INTO A CIRCLE!” I made exaggerated motions with my arms to emphasize my point. Luckily the Noldo bearing the fitting name of Old was up to the task.

 

You see Enwino, along with two others in my group, where those who would have been called greybeards in my previous existence. They were of the First of the Firstborn. Tatyar who had awoken on the shores of near mythical Cuiviénen, survived the Darkness that heralded the end of the united Quendi, made the Great Journey to Aman, and had settled down into a well earned peace. They had raised families who were now in the third or even fourth generation apart from their forefathers.

 

From what I managed to gather when the old ones felt like sharing, almost all of their children and their children has either stayed in Tirion upon the Exile or turned back with Arafinwë after Alqualondë. Key word in that statement being ‘almost’.

 

The oldest of the fourth generation for Enwino had joined up with the Ñolofinwëans. About five of Adair’s family had done the same, although I had only met four. The third greybeard… Well, he didn’t really talk. Like at all. 

 

These three knew their shit. Regardless of their reasons for being here at this moment, their experiences had made them invaluable to me and the group at large. 

 

So as I plunged deeper into the crowd of Noldor, Enwino and his two fellows pushed, pulled, and dragged the sleighs into a basic barrier.

 

What followed next was a blur of action. I called out to elves: handing out orders, gathering scattered families together, grabbing the attention of those who had not noticed our growing circle so they could join the formation.

 

It was a frenzy of life before the rushing cold came in.

 

Xxx

 

I ended up, when the small window of opportunity to prepare had faded, with my back against a the smooth rib bones that we used to form the frame of our sleighs. I had hurriedly thrown a blood seal skin over my upper shoulders and heads to give myself ever single jot of protection I could.

 

Then...the snow storm swept through our ranks.

 

Cold, Cold, Cold, COLD, COLD!!

 

Oh it was so cold. So so cold. Ice crystals were forming on the seal skin and what scraps of gristle on it froze into a series of twisting flesh spikes. I couldn’t even see more than a foot away from my position.  

 

Then I started to feel to worst feeling in my hands that one could feel in this position: warmth. Valar bless me however, the feeling is only in the tips of my fingers at the moment. However unless I do something, quickly, I will die on here. Another victim of the Grinding Ice.

 

So I turn inwards, into my hröa. As I did so I called upon the fires of my fëa, my soul, to bolster my flesh: to strengthen its bonds with this body, to fight back against the foe that now struck against the hröa. 

 

But in order for my soul to keep its flames stoked, its bonds strong, it needed fuel. Not food or drink, but fuel of the mind.

 

Needs be as needs must. I dredged up memories of happier times, of a life lived in happiness and plenty for centuries on end. With each remembered youthful misadventures, each moment of familial bonding, each moment of honing my trade, the fëa beat back the unnatural warmth. Still it needed a constant flow to maintain itself in at this rate of usage, at least for someone with my level of ability in the arts of the mind and soul.

 

And so I remembered happier times under the light of trees.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All and Welcome to my first AO3 work! Enjoy!
> 
> Index of Helpful Things
> 
> Ñolofinwë - Fingolfin: The second son of High King Finwe, half brother to Fëanor. Currently Leading the Noldor across the Grinding Ice  
> Findekáno - Fingon: The first son of Fingolfin.  
> Turukáno - Turgon: The second son of Fingolfin.  
> Írissë - Aredhel: The daughter of Fingolfin  
> Lalwendë - Lalwen: The youngest daughter of High King Finwe.  
> Arafinwë - Finarfin: The third son of High King Finwe, half brother to Fëanor and full brother to Fingolfin. Currently in Valinor doing whatever goes on there.  
> Findaráto - Finrod: The First son of Finarfin. Currently leading his siblings and their people across the Grinding Ice alongside Fingolfin and his.  
> Nortaro - Take a guess.  
> meldors - friends(Q)  
> Helcaraxë - The Grinding Ice  
> Araman - The northern most shores of Aman


End file.
